


The Graveyard

by midnight_neverland



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Hawkmoth is gone, Older AU, and a ghost story, exes to friends to lovers, there's angst abound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnight_neverland/pseuds/midnight_neverland
Summary: Things seem larger at night, when the city is asleep, when shadows hover like clouds underfoot. This is a place where memories come to die.It’s been thirteen years since Marinette first donned the mask of Ladybug and she’s long since passed it onto her successor.Now, the new Ladybug and Chat Noir have gone missing and a mysterious shadow creeps over the Parisian nightscape. It’s been years since she’s been home, fighting alongside Chat Noir. It’s been years since she’s seen Adrien, after they broke up ten years prior. But she finds herself slipping back into old habits, especially when Adrien seems obsessed with a mission that might be connected to the ever-looming shadows. Especially when she and Chat Noir discover their true identities.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first foray into this fandom (eep). I hope I'm doing it justice. I have a lot of ideas for this story and the backstory will slowly enfold as we progress. If you'd like to drop me a message or follow my shenanigans, you can find me on tumblr (ourmidnightneverland).

Marinette has spent exactly three years in her New York apartment and yet, nothing feels like home. It’s odd not having her past shadow her. She misses it sometimes—the adrenaline like a spool of twine quickly unwinding, her yo-yo flashing from her palm. She misses the air beneath her as she leapt off rooftops, the rush of magic cleansing her city. New York has never felt like her city. 

And she hasn’t been Ladybug in years. 

But there’s something very _Marinette_ about her apartment where Ladybug has never lived. Her curtains have never been drawn so she could transform. She’s only stayed up late with her sewing machine and laptop, not fighting akumas. She never has to keep one eye open for trouble when catching the subway to work. 

There’s something reassuring about returning home to a quiet rooftop, where only ghosts feel at home. She can see their stories in the graffiti left behind and painted over, tiles re-shingled, spots bleached by the sun. 

But there’s still something missing. 

She often runs her fingers across the space where her earrings had been. She hasn’t been able to wear anything else since. It feels too much like playing dress-up, the wrong pair of shoes too big and too out of place on her feet. 

There are nights where she still dreams of it—being Ladybug. For one millisecond, she’ll be suspended in air before the floor wakes her up. Then, she’s left peering upwards at a ceiling that’s barely familiar. 

Sometimes, she still dreams of a figure clad in black, tail winking behind him as he trades quips for eye rolls. She stands before him, eighteen again, her name at the tip of her tongue. She feels her fingers against her mask, a shrill beep surrounding them. She feels it melt away the second his does, green eyes more familiar than they should be. 

_Adrien._  

His name is still in her thoughts as she stares up at the dark ceiling. She laughs, then lifts herself up with a groan. It’s been years since she’s seen either of them and two a.m. is far too late to reminisce over teenage memories. 

It doesn’t mean she’ll fall back asleep. She watches the red numbers on her clock slowly tick past—two-thirty, three o’clock—before groaning again. She snatches the blanket from her bed and wraps it around herself as she pads into the kitchen. 

She fumbles to turn on the coffee machine, the room illuminated only by the small light above the sink. She collapses onto a chair as the coffee maker hisses to life. 

It isn’t the first time the two have merged in her dreams—her ex-boyfriend, her ex-partner. There were times where she felt torn between the two, trying to draw the line where her priorities lay. 

_You have to save Paris,_ she’d often chastised herself. 

_But you can’t forget your civilian life,_ she’d offer as rebuttal. _There’s more to you than Ladybug._  

There were times when she’d caught Chat’s gaze and seen Adrien there, or Chat’s smile across Adrien’s lips. She wasn’t sure what that said about her psyche, but it unsettled her. 

She’d never told either of her identity, but she couldn’t count the times she’d wanted to. Her secret was always a breath from spilling free. 

She remembers the first time she’d kissed Adrien, fireworks in her eyes. She’d pressed her forehead against his, catching her breath, catching his stutter this time as he tried to say something besides _Okay, wow._  

She remembers the first time he’d told her he loved her, with his fingers pressed close to her sides. 

_I love everything about you._

Her name had been on the tip of her tongue then, split into two words. _Marinette. Ladybug._ She’d thought she had time to combine the two in her mind. 

But she’s read the stories. She’s seen the movies. She knows the weight of such secrets in the hands of the wrong person. 

She’d thought she had time. 

She remembers the last time she’d seen him—graduation, a meter of space between them, weeks after his father had passed.  

_So, this is it. You’ll do great. I know you will._ He’d held out his hand, formal, distant. It distracted her from the expression on his face, which she’d seen for weeks, no matter how much she tried to ease softness back into it. She hadn’t seen him smile since his dad had passed away. He was barely there those last few weeks, ghosting in and out of presence. He pushed aside anyone who asked about him. It was as if he was punishing himself. 

She’d wanted to tell him that, but everything she told him slid right past. He was there beside her physically, and that was all. Then, that was gone, too. 

_You will, too._ She took his palm into hers, warm against hers for one second before he nodded and pulled away.

 

* * *

 

She sighs as she pulls herself from the chair, as she fills her mug with coffee. She remembers the conversation she’d had with Chat, after that last day of school—sitting on a rooftop, feet dangling beneath them. They were supposed to be congratulating each other, but neither could work up more than a grim smile. 

_It sucks._ Her yo-yo had flashed from her palm, spooling downwards before being yanked back up. 

_Yeah,_ he finally said. His eyes followed the lazy pull of her yo-yo. _I know the feeling._  

_You, too?_

_Something like that._ He’d sighed, leaning back onto his arms. _She was too good for me, anyway._

_I doubt that, chaton,_ she said as she pocketed her yo-yo. 

He flashed her a slight smile. _I bet you were too good for him, buginette._  

_I doubt that, too._  

_You’re not too good for me._ It was more of an afterthought than a joke. It made her own smile feel pained. _Ten years from now, you think we’ll still be doing this?_

_Maybe,_ she replied. _Think you can still vault over a rooftop in ten years?_

_I’ll do anything if it keeps me moving,_ he muttered under his breath. He paused, his eyes finding hers, and she was frightened of what she saw. She’d seen it before, pooling in Adrien’s eyes before he’d blinked and turned away from her. 

_You have to cry,_ she’d told Adrien. _You have to let it out. You can’t bury it inside yourself._  

The beep of their miraculous startled them. _Tell you what, buginette,_ Chat said, a smile too wide and too strained beneath his mask. _Ten years from now, you don’t find the one, I’ll be happy to fill his place._

_You would,_ she quipped, shaking her head. 

There was no mock offense, no comeback. Just a solemn nod, the smile fading as he stared at the night sky ahead of them.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t last ten years. They’d traded their miraculous for college degrees, hanging on for as long as they could before it was all too much. Hawkmoth had disappeared, but his presence had left a trace that worked through the city like a virus. Her last year as Ladybug, there was nothing magical about the villains she’d chased. There was something more jarring about the power-seeking in those eyes, not swayed by the pull of an akuma. It would haunt her for years afterwards. 

She dreams of that, too, sometimes—villains attached to ghostly akumas that vanish when she tries to catch them. They’re always in a graveyard. She sees Hawkmoth cloaked in darkness, his face bare of his mask. She can never see who it is, though, only a familiar face distorted from the shadows. She sees Adrien walking behind her, as ghostly as the akumas. His eyes see through her, muttering words she can’t hear. 

Marinette had little doubt the next Ladybug would be spectacular, that the Chat Noir ambling after her would live up to his name. Paris was in safe hands, even as she felt guilty. Ladybug and Chat Noir had been passed down for millennia. It was hardly new. It didn’t make her feel any less guilty. 

There were times when she’d worried she wouldn’t know how to be Marinette after Ladybug was gone. 

And at twenty-eight, she still feels guilty, dreaming of rooftops and her cat-eared partner, when she’s half way across the world now. She has work in a couple of hours and all she’s accomplished is half a cup of coffee and not nearly enough sleep. 

She groans again and drags herself to the shower, hoping it will root her more firmly in the present.

 

* * *

 

_Le Chat Blanc._

The sign clatters as she yanks open the door. She’d found it ironic when she started working at the boutique two years ago, as if this was a sign she should be working there. It was an internship that had led her there, following the tail of another internship in Paris. She’d jumped at the chance, even if it was far busier than the last boutiques where she’d worked. Far busier than she was used to. And so much further. 

She loves it almost as much as she hates it. She loves the way her hands are never still, the way her knuckles crack when she sets down a design or turns off her sewing machine for the night. She loves the way her boss, Lydia, beams at her designs. She loves how her work isn’t only displayed in the windows but on the streets as well. She can ride the subway and spot one of her designs, and another and another if she keeps looking.

But everyone she loves is an ocean away from her—nearly halfway through their day before hers had barely begun. The streets are cramped, everyone pushes and rushes, and there never seems to be enough hours in the day. The times when she’s home before midnight, she barely sleeps anyway. Her head’s still reeling with projects that need to be finished, deadlines quickly approaching. 

She muffles a yawn as she greets Lydia, who’s already buried beneath fabric in the back room. 

“Do you have the measurements for the Littels’ dresses?” Lydia asks. “I told them they’d be ready on Friday.” 

“Already working on it,” Marinette says with a smile. She’d spent nearly a week modifying the design for the bride-to-be. She’d finally been given the okay to start working on it, only to have the client call every day to verify every detail. 

The phone rings like clockwork. “Good morning, Mrs. Littel,” Marinette greets. She doesn’t miss the little huff of appreciated laughter on the other end. “Blue lace, I definitely remember.” 

She feels as if she’s moving on autopilot. But even with the busyness around her, she still finds herself nodding off. The whir of the sewing machine only seems to lull her more into a daze. She pricks her finger several times. When she nearly sews it to the fabric before her, she decides enough is enough. 

She isn’t the only one who thinks so. “Go home,” Lydia instructs from behind her. She eyes Marinette as she runs her finger under the bathroom faucet. 

“I’m fine,” Marinette insists. She flashes her finger, still noticeably red. 

“You’re a liability. We can’t have that right now.” Lydia smiles to lessen the blow. “Get some rest. Please. We’ll have more work done if you’re not sewing body parts to the dresses.” 

“We’ll have more work done if I’m actually doing the work,” Marinette mutters. She finds herself being pushed towards the bathroom door, Lydia shushing from behind her. 

The Littels’ dresses are almost done, nothing the others can’t finish. The rest could be done tomorrow, where she could pick up where she’d left off much quicker if she could get some rest.

She falls asleep on the subway nearly minutes after sitting down. She can feel the shadows falling from the windows as they pass through tunnels. On the cusp of dreaming, she sees them, darkness stretching and lengthening, vaguely human-shaped. 

She jerks awake at each _ding_ echoing loudly in the compartment. She’s not sure if the minutes she’d just tacked together make it worth the brief disembodiment. She’s even grumpier by the time she makes it to her apartment. 

She fumbles with the lock and pushes the door open, feet dragging as she makes it to her bed. She collapses onto it with a soft grunt. She’s barely registered that there’s something hard underneath her stomach. She rolls over and pulls a small box free. The familiarity of it sends her head into full-blown panic. She stares down at it, wide-eyed. Her mouth struggles to make some sort of sound. It takes her three tries to open it. When she does, the small stones stare up at her, exactly as she remembers them when she first saw them thirteen years ago. She quickly slams it shut again, her shriek muffled against her palm. 

 

* * *

 

She remembers the last time she’d transformed back into Marinette. That last flash of pink that seemed trapped beneath her eyelids for hours, days afterwards. For nights, she’d dream she was fighting an akuma just as her transformation wore off and that the flash of pink surrounding her wouldn’t fade.

_You were always Ladybug,_ a reporter would say, voice laced with awe, his camera bright in her face. 

_You were never Ladybug,_ someone else would say. Their hands cupped a shadowy akuma between them. Their face was distorted, shadowy just like the object fluttering in their hands. They reached towards her, the akuma hovering from their palms, and she felt the flash around her turn from pink to gray. 

She would wake up shaking in sweat, her feet tensed to jump, her hands fumbling in the sheets around her. But she was Marinette, flesh and bone, destructible. She was always Marinette. 

 

* * *

 

She sleeps with the box pressed tightly beneath her pillow and dreams the same nightmare again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some edits to the first chapter to, hopefully, make the flow less confusing.

There’s something about coffee that pulls together a routine, even when there is none. When Marinette is throwing clothes into her luggage bag, doubling back for the shoes she’d left behind, it’s the sound of the coffee machine that keeps her moving. 

She can’t open the box. She can’t wear the earrings, not until she’s seen the damage. But she did buy a ticket for the earliest morning flight to Paris, wincing as her bank account took a massive hit. 

_One more minute,_ she thinks, fumbling as she tries to zip the bag. _One more minute till the coffee is done._ She stuffs her laptop into another bag while she calls her mother, hoping her voice only registers surprise. 

She shouldn’t have the miraculous again. There isn’t a reason it should end up in her bed, thousands of kilometers from home. 

There’s something wrong. 

_One more minute._  

Her phone charger is missing. It’s only when she tugs her pillow forward to find it that she remembers the box she’d left the night before. Still, unmoving. To anyone else, it’s only a box, and beneath her pillow, it feels as if she’s left hope for a tooth fairy. A giggle escapes her and she can’t stop it. 

_One more minute._  

She’s rushing to catch a cab and it’s only when she’s at the airport, gulping the coffee that’s now cold in her hand, that she feels able to breathe again. 

She shouldn’t have the miraculous again. 

The airport is crowded that morning. She sandwiches herself between a man yelling into his phone and a woman snoring beside him. 

“How much vacation time do I have?” Marinette asks, balancing her own phone between her ear and her shoulder. She feels a twang of guilt at the dresses she’s leaving behind, the work she’s pushing onto her coworkers. Even if they’re almost at the finish line. And somewhere, buried deep beneath, is a twinge of relief. She can’t remember the last time she’d taken time off work, when it wasn’t because she was sick. Even then, she’d usually push through the work day. 

She blocks out the shouts on her other side, turning away. She debates abandoning her seat for the floor instead, but she doesn’t entirely trust her legs. She wrestles her laptop from her bag, trying not to drop it onto floor in the process. 

Lydia hums on the other line. Marinette counts the seconds before she finally answers. _“A week. Why? What’s going on? Don’t tell me you’re sick.”_ Her voice climbs nearly an octave higher. 

Marinette shakes her head. It nearly sends her phone flying from her shoulder. “No, nothing like that. Just a family emergency. I’m actually at the airport right now. But I’ve got my laptop. I’ll send over what I worked on last night.” It’s not entirely a lie. She has several designs Lydia hasn’t seen yet. Any of them would suffice.

Marinette had managed an hour of sleep. She spent the rest of the night pacing her bedroom, then the kitchen, where she’d burned through a whole pot of coffee before sending it crashing to the floor. And then she’d collapsed beside it, laughter bubbling in her throat as she gathered the broken pieces to throw away. At least, she’d still had her old coffee maker. 

_“Tell me you can ship me something tomorrow,”_ Lydia says over the phone. Her voice climbs even higher. _“I hate to do this to you right now, but you know we have a deadline Friday. If we lose any more clients, it’ll be like a cascade of dominoes, I just know it.”_

“There’s a sewing machine at my mom’s place,” Marinette says absently. She fishes her flash drive from her pocket and tries plugging it into her laptop. It clatters to the floor. She bumps her head onto her laptop as she bends to retrieve it. “I can overnight you something by tomorrow, at the latest,” she adds, rubbing her head. Her hands are trembling too much to do anything besides rattle the keys in front of her. 

_“Please do,”_ Lydia encourages and sighs over the line. _“Tell your family I wish them well. Call me.”_ And the line disconnects, leaving Marinette staring at a folder of designs she needs to email. And then at the box she has packed into her carry-on bag, practically burning a hole through it. Her hand itches to fish it out, to open it again, to feel the stones against her fingers, her ears. Part of her is sure it’s a trick of her mind, a delusion from too much work and not enough sleep. Part of her is worried if it takes such a delusion to make her drop everything and return home. 

She sighs and draws her attention back to her laptop, adding the files to the email and hitting send before she can forget. 

 

* * *

The bakery stands as it always has. The different cake displayed in the window is the only sign that time has passed. There is no smoke drifting from fires, no chunks of street ripped from the ground, no screams of distress. Paris is locked in its usual bustle. 

Marinette pauses before she opens the door, reaching for the box in the bag she’s carrying. She can feel its weight against her hand, but it doesn’t offer any answers. 

She shuffles past the tables, hearing clanging upstairs as her father drops her bags. Her mother is upon her before she’s even made it past the counter. 

“Maman,” Marinette greets, engulfed in Sabine’s embrace. 

“Such a sudden visit. Nothing’s wrong, is it?” Her mother pulls away to examine her face, frowning at whatever she finds there. “You sounded terrified on the phone.” 

“I just needed a quick getaway,” Marinette says lamely. “I had vacation time and it’s been a few months since I’ve been home, so I thought, ‘why not?’” 

“Why not?” Sabine echoes, a concerned smile at her lips. She’s never been one to pry, though, so she leaves it at that. “Did you sleep on the plane?”

“No,” Marinette says, “I was trying to catch up before officially tucking my laptop away.” _Which, of course, would probably not happen_ , she thinks with a silent laugh. _And who sleeps these days?_ _I’m a modern-age vampire._  

She eyes the concern still on her mother’s smile. “I’m just a little stressed,” she admits. 

“Well, of course you are. You have a fashion empire to run.” Sabine winks. She leads her past the bakery, gesturing to the stairs leading to her room. “Your room’s waiting for you.” She leans against the banister. “You know, you’re always free to stay here. If things aren’t working out. You’re never too old to come back home.” 

Marinette pauses at the foot of the stairs, a twinge of guilt in her chest. “I know, Maman,” she says softly. “Things are good, I promise. I just needed a break.” 

Sabine nods, dropping her hands to the pocket of her apron. Her hair is grayer than Marinette remembers and there are more lines winding across the knuckles of her hands. “Feel free to come down whenever. Take your time,” she says before heading back towards the bakery. “Tom,” she calls behind her, “I’m going to need your help with this order.” 

“Coming,” he bellows, squeezing his way downstairs and placing a quick kiss atop Marinette’s head. 

Marinette watches after them, suddenly feeling too tall in the staircase surrounding her. The stairs creak more than she remembers. Her room feels smaller as well—the pink walls painted over, the posters long gone. It’s a spare bedroom now, wiped clean of her adolescence. Her bags sit by the foot of a bed she’s slept in maybe twice since moving to New York. The white comforter is turned down, baring pillows that look untouched. She feels like a guest at a hotel. 

She unzips the box from the bag closest to her. She weighs it in her palms, staring down at it until the stinging of her eyes reminds her to blink. She opens it slowly, the stones catching the light overhead. “Tikki?” she murmurs. The box stays empty beside the earrings. 

“I’m here,” a small voice finally says from behind her. 

Marinette yelps and drops the box, sending it tumbling onto the rug below. 

“I didn’t know how you’d react, so I stayed out of sight,” Tikki adds and smiles faintly. 

Marinette feels disconnected from herself, her fifteen-year-old mind inside her twenty-eight-year-old body, and between them a tiny red god floats, as if time has never ticked past. 

“I’m fine.” Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. She bends down to retrieve the box, closing it gently. “This is…I’m absolutely fine.” 

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Wide eyes blink down at her with a trace of mischief. “It’s not as if you have a good track record when it comes to these kinds of things.” 

“Give me a minute. I’m working up to it,” Marinette replies. She collapses onto her bed and rubs at her eyes. She catches the worry lined in her kwami’s expression and the panic inside her shrieks like a fire alarm. “I wanted to see it first. Whatever’s wrong. Because something’s wrong, isn’t it?” 

“You need to see it,” Tikki says above her. Her face has fallen serious again. 

“See what?” Marinette braces herself for disaster, whichever form it will embody. 

“I can’t explain it, Marinette. Darkness. Shadows. But it’s not normal. It’s not an akuma.” 

“It can’t be akuma,” Marinette reassures her. “Hawkmoth’s gone.” 

“Yes.” Tikki seems to hesitate. “We believe he is, anyway. And this…this is different.” 

“But there’s a new Ladybug in charge.” Marinette shakes her head. “Isn’t there? I don’t understand.” 

“She’s missing,” Tikki says softly. “Chat Noir, too. We don’t know what happened. One minute, we’re fighting some kind of ghost, the next Plagg and I are on the ground, the miraculous beside us.” 

“Ghost?” Marinette whispers. Dreams of a graveyard come to mind, ghosts that walk past, always changing. 

“We don’t know what they are,” Tikki admits. “And then…well, you need to see it. I can’t explain it.” She blinks slowly at Marinette, her tiny mouth grim. “We don’t have time to train someone new. You’re our best hope.” 

“Tikki,” Marinette breathes, closing her eyes tightly. When she opens them, her kwami is still floating in front of her, her miraculous still in her palm. “It’s been years. I don’t know how to be Ladybug anymore. I’m not sure I can lasso myself to a building without ending up splattered onto the street.” 

“The miraculous doesn’t forget,” Tikki responds. “You won’t either. Please, Marinette. We need you.” 

Marinette sighs, already feeling the tug of her yo-yo in hand, the need to jump at the call for help. “If you say I can,” she begins, glancing down at the box in her hand, “who am I to disagree?”

A flicker of a smile graces Tikki’s face. “You’ll need to head to the Eiffel Tower. You can see it from there.” 

“Okay.” Marinette sighs. She lifts the stones from the box, sliding them into her ears with trembling hands. They feel cold and heavy against her skin and a shiver runs through her. She lets out another slow breath. “Okay. Spots on.” A flash of pink light, adrenaline like fire lapping at her muscles. She feels tension at the balls of her feet, as if her body’s ready to sprint off before her mind has caught up. 

She catches her reflection in the mirror across from her, a stranger in her second skin. “Okay,” she says again. Her voice is barely hinging on sane. She reaches for the yo-yo on her side, giving it a few flicks to test herself. She feels the magic hum through the string, in her fingers, coursing through her blood. And she climbs through the skylight, yo-yo catching onto the nearest balcony to swing her past. 

It’s not perfect. She stumbles on the landings, her yo-yo slips its grasp a few times, but she quickly finds her pace again. She’s missed it—the wind cupped beneath her, her body nearly weightless beneath the pull of her yo-yo. She’s missed it so much, it isn’t until she’s landed at the Eiffel Tower that she feels her breath leave in a whine. She’s gone nearly ten years with the ground thoroughly beneath her feet, a body grown accustomed to the mundane. And now she’s balanced near the top of the Eiffel Tower, ten years like ten seconds and ten decades all at once. 

She hears a dull thud from beside her. Her eyes flick towards the movement. A tousle of blond hair and green eyes greet her, a grin splitting the mouth beneath it wide. 


	3. Chapter 3

“My lady.” He nods, hesitating for a second before taking hold of her hand and pressing a light kiss against her knuckles. “I knew you’d come back to me eventually.” 

She lets out a huff of a laugh, slipping her hand free. “You haven’t changed, I see. It’s good to see you again.” 

“You haven’t aged a day,” he says with a wink. 

“Can’t say the same about you, though.” She glances up at him quickly, not recalling him towering over her as he does now. He looks rougher, but thinner somehow, a line of stubble against the pallor of his skin. She thinks if she pushed him, he might shatter before he fell, armored or not. 

He gasps in mock protest. “The life of a tomcat is not an easy one,” he replies. She notices beneath his grin, he’s slightly out of breath. She can’t tell if it’s from being out of practice or something more. “Some say I’m more rugged now.” 

She raises an eyebrow. She reaches for his arm, frowning when her hand wraps easily around his wrist. “That’s not how I’d describe it,” she says, the humor slipping from her voice. 

His cheeks flush as he yanks his arm free. “We’ve got a job to do, I hear.” 

“That we do.” She peers past him, across the line of rooftops and buildings beneath them. Everything looks still, slowed in the bask of nighttime, except for a shadowy patch at the smallest stretch of her vision. “What’s that?” 

Chat squints as he follows her gaze. He shakes his head when he can’t seem to make it out either. “It shouldn’t be that dark.” 

“It’s not dark, exactly, but…” She trails off, leaning forward slightly. Her foot slips on the edge and she finds herself shooting forward, hands flailing and her yo-yo quickly unwinding before she can grab some of its slack.

Chat shouts and launches himself after her. She feels his ribs crash against hers, the metal of his staff pressing between them as he pushes against it. He stumbles as he lands back on the edge, his arm gripped tightly across her waist. His breath fans across her face, hot and uneven. He looks as if he’ll be the next to topple off the edge. 

“Nice save,” she says, frowning up at him. “You okay?” 

“I think I’m too old for this,” he wheezes. His grip loosens and he leans against her instead, shaking feeling back into his legs. 

“I think we’re just out of practice.” She presses a palm to his forehead, frowning more when she finds it burning up. “And you’re definitely not in the right shape for this.” 

“I’m fine.” He grabs hold of her hand and squeezes it gently. “Getting over a nasty virus. Overworked. Stressed. I’ll be good as new tomorrow.”

“Well, that doesn’t help me tonight,” she says, squeezing his hand in return. 

He presses another quick kiss to her knuckles. “Ah, your concern humbles me, my lady. But I think we have more pressing matters right meow.” 

She yanks her hand free. “You’d think after thirteen years, you’d at least have better puns.” 

“What are you saying?” He raises in eyebrow in mock disbelief. “My puns are a-meow-zing.” 

“Even worse, actually.” 

“I’m out of practice,” he reminds her and leans against his staff. “So, what do you think that shadowy area is?” 

“I don’t know.” Her gaze flicks back towards the dark patch in the horizon. “It looks foggy, misshapen almost. Definitely strange.” 

“So, let’s investigate.” He’s already leaping past her, tail flying behind him, before she can register he’s left. 

“A warning would have been nice,” she mutters. She flings her yo-yo at the building below, swinging after him. 

The shadows don’t clear as they draw closer. Their shape is just as distorted when they’re up close, dark patches weaving in and out of focus. 

“I’ve seen this before,” she says slowly. She thinks of the shadows that edge her dreams sometimes, vaguely-shaped, always reaching. 

Chat pokes at the shadow with his staff. It passes straight through, even though the shadow isn’t transparent. “It’s all over this building,” he observes. “This whole row of buildings, actually. What did this used to be, an old business area?”

“I can’t remember,” she replies. “It’s been a while since I’ve been home. I was too busy trying to keep afloat in New York.” 

“New York?” He seems surprised, chuckling as he retracts his staff and returns it to his side. “What kind of heathen did they turn you into?” 

She scoffs, flicking her yo-yo in his direction as she paces around the shadow surrounding them. “Certainly more refined than you turned out. You’re barely more than skin and bones, you scrawny cat.” 

His smile fades. “I’ve been doing some traveling of my own. It didn’t turn out as well as yours.” 

“I can see that.” She doesn’t meet his gaze when he continues to stare down at her, the humor stripped from their banter, the shadows like dark clouds smothering their feet. They remind her entirely too much of her dream. 

“We can go through it, I think,” he says. “It doesn’t seem harmful.” 

Her hand stills him before he can test her theory. “You don’t know that. Not all wounds are visible.” 

“You have any other ideas?” 

“Not at the—Chat, wait!” 

But he’s already passed through, the air stale and heavy around her. Chat’s voice is muffled in front of her, as if there’s a slate of glass between them. He seems unscathed, though. 

She sighs and follows after him. The building around her looks considerably more rotted than the outside’s implied. The second floor is crumbling away, wooden support beams eroded and broken above her. There are streaks like burn marks across the walls. Chunks of floor missing, dirt and rubble poking through. And the shadows hover like low-laying fog at her feet. 

“Not impressed,” she tells him, walking past him. 

“Sorry for disappointing.” He waves at the fog behind him, which seems to have risen to block out the city around them. 

She bends over to inspect a black streak winding down the decaying staircase.

“You said you’ve seen this before,” he points out. His steps are slow behind her. 

“No.” She runs a gloved finger across the blackened mark. She’d expected soot to come free, but the blackness parts away from the stairs, drifting like smoke before dissipating. “I mean, not exactly.” 

“It’s like a dream,” he says and the words startle her. 

She turns towards him, the grim line of his frown pulling at something familiar, something she can’t quite pinpoint. “You’ve dreamt of this?” 

He lets out a low laugh and kicks at a piece of broken tile. “Since I was eighteen. Same recurring dream, every night.” 

“Every night?" 

“Every night,” he confirms. “It’s part of the reason why I was traveling. Trying to find answers.” 

“Did you see—” 

“A ghost?” he interrupts, standing stock-still as his eyes fix on something past her. 

“Yes, exactly,” she says. She feels her heart speed up, her blood both too warm and too cold in her fingers. 

“No,” he whispers, nodding slightly to what his gaze is fixed on. “Turn slowly and back up towards me.” 

A shiver runs through her as she turns. His hand finds her, pulling her behind him, as she eyes the figure standing on the stairs. It’s a woman, clad in a white pantsuit, her hair swept up neatly at the nape of her neck. But she’s entirely transparent, made of nothing but white smoke that stands out starkly from the dark shadows surrounding her. 

“How do we fight ghosts?” he asks quietly, his staff held before him. 

“No idea,” she replies, recalling Tikki’s words from earlier. Her fingers edge towards her yo-yo, ready to use her lucky charm. 

Then, the woman screams, gray smoke pouring from her mouth as she dissolves before them, leaving the staircase bare again. 

Both Chat and Ladybug jump back, shouting, but the shadows are already reeling away, fading into the walls. 

There’s something entirely too familiar about the woman, whose lectures Marinette hadn’t attended for many years. 

“Was that…I mean, did you recognize her?” she asks.

There’s a beat of silence and she turns to look back at Chat, who’s swallowing visibly. “I did,” he finally says. His hand is still around her wrist and he lets go slowly. There’s something both jarring and relieving to hear him confirming her fear. 

“So, is this something that mimics people? Imitates their shape, maybe? Should we be hunting down who they’re targeting? To ensure their safety?” 

“It could be,” he says slowly, “but Miss Bustier passed away a few years ago.” 

She feels her blood run cold again. “No, that can’t be.” _But she was younger than my mother._ She reels back in her mind, trying to remember if someone had mentioned it to her. Her parents. Alya. Maybe they’d thought she’d been too busy, maybe they’d thought they’d told her in passing—a Skype or phone call before she’d run off to chase after deadlines. Maybe they had and she’d buried it in the trenches of her memory, something to deal with later. 

“I had her one year.” The words slide free, like an afterthought. It takes a moment for them to catch up to her and when they do, her eyes widen in panic. She clears her throat. “I mean I—”

“I did, too,” he replies. 

She glances up at him, but he’s still staring at the staircase, lost in thought. He hasn’t moved since the ghostly figure had disappeared. 

“We went to the same school,” she says. The jarring sense tugs at her tighter. 

His head jerks toward her, eyes wide as he lets out a low chuckle. “We really are out of practice, letting things like that slip.” 

She watches him run a hand through his hair, sending it tumbling past his eyes. She tries to recall someone tousling his hair similarly, but stops herself before she can fully dissect it. She’d gone thirteen years without knowing his identity. She doesn’t need to know now, not when there are more important matters. 

“How do we fight ghosts?” she repeats his earlier question. 

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling that wherever it’s gone, it’ll lead to the other Ladybug and Chat Noir.” 

“Practically a given,” she agrees. “The question is where.” 

A shrill beep sounds between them, startling more space between them. 

“Time’s running out,” he says. “Should we come back?” 

She eyes the fog, almost entirely dissipated now. The decrepit building seems emptier around them now, as if whatever eeriness it held retreated with the shadows. It’s nothing but forgotten debris now. “I don’t think we’ll find any answers tonight.” 

Her miraculous beeps a second time. 

“No, probably not.” His eyes flick towards her, a smile at the edge of his lips. It has none of the fervor of his previous smiles. “Tomorrow?” 

“Unless you see something before then.” 

He bows, and the way his body seems to fold on itself makes the jarring even worse. 

“Take care of yourself,” she murmurs, barely catching the furrow of his brow as she tosses her yo-yo and takes flight again. 

 

* * *

 

_Does your boyfriend know you’ve got a handsome partner fighting crime with you?_ Chat had said, collapsing his staff and returning it to his side. He cocked a grin in her direction.

She’d immediately rolled her eyes. _I don’t think he has any competition._

_Me-ouch._ He leaned against the wall, grin never faltering. 

_Do you think your girlfriend would appreciate you flirting with another girl?_ she’d tossed back. 

This time, his grin did waver. _It’s just banter. You know I’m not serious, right?_

She’d paused, arms folded across her chest as she took in his frown. His quips had come less frequently those days, less admiring, more vague. 

_If it’s bothering you, I’ll stop,_ he’d continued. _I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable._

It was strange, she thought, how the dynamic had changed between them, subtle only until they drew attention to it. How everything had to be drawn into boundaries, painted over in red lines. She’d always had to ask herself _would Adrien be okay with this? With this?_ as if she could conjure him beside her and have him tell her how to act around Chat. And then, she’d wonder why she would have to examine it at all.

_Don’t worry about it,_ she’d said, wishing more than anything her miraculous would call the night to an end. The way he looked at her made her feel anything but comfortable.


	4. Chapter 4

Sabine knocks on the trapdoor and lifts it slowly, two mugs of hot chocolate held carefully in her other hand. “Thought you might want this. Look at you doing work even when you’re on vacation. You never stop for a moment, do you?” 

“Only when I sleep,” Marinette promises. She pulls a pin free and places it in the cat pin cushion next to her. 

Sabine sets one of the mugs on the table beside her before heading back towards the ladder. 

“Did you know that Miss Bustier had passed? A few years ago?” Marinette asks. She hadn’t meant to blurt out the question, but it had been spinning around in her head for hours now. 

Sabine looks confused. She squints as she tries to recall the memory. “I think so. It was on the news, I believe. A car accident. You didn’t know?” She eases into the chaise nearby. It’s the only thing in Marinette’s room that hasn’t changed. 

“I don’t think I did. A friend told me earlier.” 

“She seemed like a wonderful lady.” Her mother looks thoughtful as she sips from her mug. 

“She was so young,” Marinette replies. “I mean, too young for…you know.” 

The concerned smile is back on her mother’s lips. “You know, I wish it worked that way. That there was an exemption process. I’m sure she would have made it.” 

Marinette looks up with a tight smile of her own and stabs her thumb on a pin. 

“Hearing you whirring away over there reminds me of when you were younger,” Sabine muses. 

Marinette laughs. “I’m far from old, Maman.” 

“Sometimes, it feels like you’ve just left. Sometimes, I feel pretty old, myself.” Marinette can practically see her mentally backtracking. “Don’t you worry, though. I won’t be crossing paths with any cars any time soon. I’ve got luck on my side.” She tosses a wink in her direction.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Marinette pricks herself again and shakes out her hand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” her mother promises. She scoops up her mug and rises to her feet.

“Except to bed.” She presses a kiss to the top of her head and heads back towards the ladder again. “There’ll be plenty of talk tomorrow. How long are you here for, anyway?” 

“A week,” Marinette replies. She fights back the panic of approaching deadlines, the possibility that whatever is lurking in the shadows might take longer than she has the time for. 

_I’ll cross that later,_ she thinks, pricking herself yet again. 

When the trapdoor closes behind her, Marinette drops her foot from the pedal of the sewing machine. She rubs her eyes, wishing she could grind more sense than the heels of her hands offer. She won’t be overnighting anything tomorrow. 

 

* * *

 

When she tumbles to the floor this time, the ceiling above her is a different kind of unfamiliar. Home that isn’t quite home. The clock beside her flashes two a.m. She sighs as she untangles herself from the sheets. Ghosts chase at the back of her mind. 

She remembers her first few times as Ladybug, the nightmares she’d been swept into—endless akuma battles, defeat as her knees hit the pavement, a line of dead civilians. A dead Chat. A dead Ladybug. She supposes, like the rest of her, her brain’s recoiling from the loss of practice. 

“Marinette?” Tikki’s voice squeaks from beside her pillow. 

“I’m okay,” Marinette says, climbing back into bed, though she’s wide awake. 

“You’ve barely spoken since you came back,” Tikki says when she turns to face her. 

Marinette blinks at the darkness. There’s something both too real and too fantastical about the ghost of Miss Bustier standing before her. That she’s expected to fight it, vanquished like any villain. But with no akuma, no Hawkmoth, nothing but smoke and a mountain of questions, she doesn’t know where to begin. 

“I don’t know how to describe it,” she replies. “Is it really a ghost?”

“We don’t know,” Tikki says. She closes her eyes and Marinette thinks she might have fallen asleep, until she speaks again. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not once.” 

It feels as if Marinette’s heart has dropped to her stomach. All the time and places that Tikki has experienced, that something like this is left unexplained makes Marinette worry. There is most definitely _something wrong_ and she might not be equipped for this job. This might be the thing that defeats her. 

She draws the sheets over herself. “How did you fight it last time? When Ladybug and Chat Noir disappeared?” It feels strange to mention them and not mean herself, like she’s stepping into a pair of shoes she’s already passed on. Nothing quite fits. 

“Ladybug tried to trap it.” 

“Would that work?” Marinette’s fingers wind through the sheets. “If it’s just made of smoke?” 

“It isn’t smoke, whatever it is,” Tikki informs. 

Marinette falls silent, lost in thought. She traces the line of dreams she’d had before, the ghostly akumas, Hawkmoth with a distorted face. “It couldn’t be Hawkmoth,” she reasons. “He’s been gone for years.” 

“Gone,” Tikki emphasizes. “Not dead. I’ve been thinking about it,” she hesitates, “but maybe wherever Ladybug and Chat Noir have disappeared is where he has as well.” 

The sheets fall slack between Marinette’s grasp. “Do you think that’s possible?” 

Tikki’s silence is more than enough answer. 

“Tikki,” Marinette begins, “who brought you to me? How did the miraculous get back in the box if Ladybug and Chat Noir disappeared?” 

Tikki seems hesitant to answer. “I don’t know,” she finally responds. “I couldn’t see them.” 

“So, this could be a trap.” Marinette works the sheets between her fingers again, clenching them. 

“Then, we have to beat them at their own game,” Tikki says. 

“Where do the shadows go?” 

“We don’t know,” Tikki replies. “But they’re there almost every night. The same place.” 

Marinette nods and silence falls between them. 

“You should get some sleep, Marinette. Worrying this late won’t help anything.” 

“I can’t sleep,” she replies. “Want to go out for a bit?” 

“The shadows won’t be there. Not if they left earlier. Not till tomorrow.” 

“I just need to run off some steam.” She kicks the sheets away as Tikki nods. Then, with a quick, “Spots on,” she’s out the skylight and into the night.

 

* * *

 

She’s lost count of the rooftops she’s passed; they blur like tiles beneath her. It’s only when she sees the manor across from her that she pauses, feet poised at the ledge, too much space to jump.

 

It’s muscle memory, she reasons, the comfort of being home, memories rushing past too easily. Eighteen-year-old Marinette would find herself in the same predicament.

 

* * *

 

_How is he?_ she’d asked Alya, during her first week at university. She hadn’t spoken to Adrien in months. No one had, really. But it didn’t stop Nino from checking in on him from time to time, even if it was only for Adrien to brush him aside and insist he was fine.

_Well,_ Alya had paused, drawing out the silence for as long as she could. _I don’t know. He left._

_Left?_

She could hear the static on the line building. 

_A couple of weeks ago, I think. That’s what Nino says. He dropped by to check on him and he wasn’t there. Girl, the place is cleaned out._

_You mean, like, broken into?_ Marinette had squeaked.

_No,_ Alya replied, _like he sold everything._

The static was practically screaming in her ear. _Oh,_ was all she could manage to say. 

_Maybe he needs this,_ Alya rushed on. _You know, he’s not…all there right now. Maybe this is what he needs._

_I’m just worried,_ Marinette said. It was more than that she missed him, though that was true, too. But she didn’t like the way the light had went out of his eyes, replaced by something much more feverish. That, instead of picking up the pieces and putting himself together, he’d put together something else entirely.

_I know. We all are. But, you know, you’ve gotta worry about you, too._

_Yeah,_ she’d said, eyeing the pile of books near her bed. _I know that, too._

* * *

 

She lets out a laugh that sounds too loud in the still of the night and turns, ready to leap back. 

“Going for a little late night stroll?” a voice calls out from beneath her. She sees the movement of his staff before she sees him, a streak of gray before he lands. He drops heavily to his haunches, eyes guarded above an easy smile that doesn’t quite match. 

“I suppose you’re doing the same,” she replies. She hesitates before dropping to sit next to him. 

“Out here, though? Not a lot of rooftops to swing past.” 

She watches her legs sway beneath her. “A friend lived here.” 

“Not anymore.” He juts his chin towards the dark manor. Ivy climbs the walls and grass overtakes the paths leading towards the front door. “Nothing lives there except weeds.” He stretches his legs out, letting them swing beside hers. “Friend, huh?” 

His eyes flick towards her, darting to catch the freckles across her cheeks, the shape of her nose, the quirk of her mouth. It’s as if he’s studying her, trying to draw her civilian self onto her mask. It makes her feel as if she’s on display. She shifts under his gaze, willing him to look away. 

“He didn’t deserve any friends,” he mutters when he finally does.

The jarring is back again, like something sliding loose, something else sliding into place. She stares at the side of his face, trying not to line up the faces she’d known with the one beside her now. There’s a whole line of people that could know Adrien, but not many fans knew his childhood home. And as Chat had revealed they’d attended the same school, he must have at least made his acquaintance. But it didn’t speak for the contempt in his tone. She didn’t know too many people who disliked Adrien, even in his less than finer days. 

She scoffs, bouncing her leg against the ledge as she swings it. “Seems like you didn’t know him too well, then.” 

“I guess not,” he says slowly and glances towards her again. The silence that enfolds feels as if there’s more than one rooftop between them. “I never thought I’d be here again. I never thought I’d _want_ to be here again.” 

She turns towards him. “You were reluctant to give it up the first time,” she reminded him. She can still see him, all those years ago, turned away from her, his back hunched as he sighed. 

_You’re right. It’s too much now,_ he’d said. Even then, he hadn’t wanted to admit it. 

“A lot’s happened since then,” he says.

“Of course,” she says quietly. It would be ridiculous to think he’d still be the same at twenty-eight. It still startles her though, as if the man before her is a stranger wearing Chat’s face, Chat’s suit. “You know, I didn’t think we’d be doing this again either. I don’t think I’ve fully accepted it. Like this is a dream I’ll be waking up from any second.”

“Ah, I knew I was still the star of your dreams.” The smile on his face looks too forced, too artificial. His toe finds hers, nudging it lightly. “Remember the last time we sat rooftop bound?”

“When you declared you’d stand in for the man of my dreams?” She feels as if she’s smiling for them both. “Or did you change your mind?” 

“I figure ten years is more than enough time for you to realize my potential.” The easiness is back in his tone. He braces himself when she leans over to shove him gently. 

“I have my dreams set on other things,” she informs him. “Taking over the fashion world, for one.” 

He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. “Come on, _buginette_. You’re made for more than that.” 

His response catches her off guard and she pauses in her attempt to shove him again. “You don’t know that.” 

“The fashion world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I don’t want to see you stress your body for the sake of art.” 

“No,” she says, drawing out the word. She can feel his eyes digging into her again and she focuses on the manor in front of her. “I want to be behind the scenes. The medium, not the canvas.” 

“Oh,” he says after a beat and nods. He looks away again. “Still a tough business to break into.” 

“It is,” she agrees. “But I think I’ve got a good handle on it.” 

“Good.” His arms are tense beside him and he stretches again, rolling his shoulders back. “At least one of us does.” 

She lets out a snort and this time, she succeeds in pushing him. “I know that’s not true. I can’t see you failing at anything.” 

“Rose-colored glasses,” he informs her and flicks her forehead, right where her mask ends. “Or, mask, rather. You can’t see the person beneath. Trust me, I’m falling apart at the seams.” 

She grabs hold of one of his arms, lifting it up and tugging lightly. “You seem pretty well put together to me.” 

“Years of practice,” he replies. “Years of hiding it.” 

“Good thing I’m a seamstress, then.” 

He laughs, pulling his arm free. “You remind me of someone,” he muses. “Which is really bizarre, all things considered.” He shakes his head, the smile catching onto his lips more wistful than anything. “Being home again is making me nostalgic, I guess.”

“I can understand that.” Her eyes flick towards the manor again. Her miraculous beeps and she rises slowly to her feet. “Well, Paris seems safe tonight. I should probably head back.” 

“Tomorrow?” he asks as he rises to his feet as well. 

“Wherever the shadows lead.” 

He pulls his staff free and extends it with a flourish and a bow. “Till then, my lady.” He launches himself away, considerably more graceful than he’d arrived. 

 

* * *

 

Marinette is scrolling through her email on her phone when Alya’s text comes through. 

_You’re lucky I love you. I wouldn’t let anyone else force me into breakfast when I could be sleeping._

She smiles and takes a sip of her coffee. She’d texted her as soon as she’d woken up and her parents had forced enough breakfast upon her to feed half the street. But she knew if she’d mentioned food, Alya would arrive a lot sooner. So, she’d picked a café down the street, away from her parents’ well-intentioned eavesdropping.

Her cup is half empty when a plate is slammed onto her table. Two hands grab hold of her shoulders and pull her into a tight embrace.

“Girl, I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination,” Alya whispers furiously into her neck. “You’re horrible at staying in touch.” 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Marinette says, squeezing her in return. “The only friends I have these days are my laptop and my sewing machine. I think they’re even starting to rebel against me.”

Alya sighs and collapses into the chair across from her. “I don’t care if you just text ‘hi,’ just give me something, please. I feel like your mom thinks I’m stalking you or something.” 

“It’s not like she’s faring any better,” Marinette says with a sigh. “She’s probably just as starved for information.” 

“Well, what do you expect when you live halfway cross the planet? I’m surprised she hasn’t flown down there to make sure you’re still alive.”

“Not her style. She just reminds me to call her when she doesn’t catch me.” Marinette reaches for the coffee beside her. “Well, how are you, at least? I didn’t see a wedding invite in the mail lately. I thought you guys had a date picked out.”

“Uh,” Alya says, her own hand frozen above her coffee, “about that…”

“No!” Marinette’s coffee slips from her grasp and she hurries to right it before it can spill. “Don’t tell me you guys broke up.”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Alya hurries to add. “I just…don’t want to be married yet. I’m good with how we are.” 

“And Nino…”

“Is completely okay with that,” Alya finishes. “Look, the wedding was my mom’s idea. She’s got this crazy notion that she’s running out of time. I’m kind of afraid she’s going to be planning her funeral next. But I’m not ready for it.”

“The funeral?” Marinette dares to take a sip of her coffee.

“No, getting married. Though, god, I’m not ready for that either.” Alya’s laugh fades into a groan. “How about you, though? Any handsome clients demanding the latest Dupain-Cheng design? Or dashing customers begging you to take their measurements? Come on, give me the gossip. New York’s got to be exciting.” 

Marinette snorts. “Absolutely not. I’m afraid my love life is completely nonexistent.” There had been a few people, but nothing that lasted more than a couple of months. She’d spent more time at the boutique or in her office than on dates or phone calls and their patience didn’t outweigh her ambition. 

Alya’s eyebrow raises dangerously high. “I find that hard to believe.” 

“Well, believe whatever you want. It won’t change the truth.” 

“Hmm.” Alya peers down at her, her glasses slipping down her nose as she studies her. “Maybe that will change. How long are you in town? Nino’s got this gig tonight at a club downtown. We should go check it out.” 

“I’ve got a deadline to finish,” Marinette apologizes. She fears the wrath her email is currently enduring. She isn’t sure how many more excuses she can send before her boss begins spamming her with panicked calls.

“Right.” Alya’s brow softens. Her own email is probably flooded with assignments and deadlines. _A freelance journalist’s job is never done,_ she’d told Marinette on numerous occasions. “Well, how about tomorrow? We could just go out for some girl time or—” She frowns and glances down at her phone which is buzzing with a series of texts. “Hang on,” she mutters, swiping through the notifications. “It’s Nino.” Her eyes grow wide as she reads her screen, then her fingers are rushing to reply. 

“What?” Marinette asks. She leans forward, trying to read the texts flying past.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Alya begins. She waves her phone between them. “Guess who Nino just ran into?”

“Um.” Marinette racks her mind, trying to filter through the list of people she knows that are still nearby. She realizes, with a start, that the list is impossibly vague. “No idea, who?”

“Wait for it,” she says, glancing towards the door. “They’re on the way now.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” a voice grumbles from outside the café door. “This is completely unnecessary. I’m perfectly capable of making my own breakfast and eating it, Nino.”

“Yeah, yeah, just humor me, alright?” Nino pushes the door open, grinning widely as he catches sight of Alya and Marinette. 

The person dragging himself behind him grumbles underneath a chaos of blond hair. “Waste of money,” he grunts as Nino rolls his eyes.

“Like you’ve ever had a problem with that.” Nino nods towards the girls. “Marinette, you’re as stunning as ever.” 

Alya scoffs, but is grinning herself as she jabs her elbow sharply into Marinette’s ribs. 

“Ow, what are you—” Marinette cuts herself off when the blond man looks up, eyes locking immediately onto hers. “Adrien.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some edits to the earlier chapters. Nothing too major, I don't think, just some things for clarity's sake. Big thanks to granian, 2ndgengeek, and haru-no-hikaru on tumblr for their help and insight with these chapters.

_It’s a gorgeous headstone,_ Marinette had said, laying her hand against Adrien’s shoulder. The gray stone sat enormously tall, blinking sunlight into their faces. 

_It’s a waste of space,_ Adrien had said as he tensed against her touch. He toed against the name engraved next to his father’s. _She’s not even buried here._

Marinette struggled to say something that wasn’t a cardboard cut-out for sympathy. She could apologize until she was blue in the face, but it wouldn’t help anything. She couldn’t make up for something she couldn’t change. 

_Adrien,_ she tried, but he’d pulled away, letting her hand drop back to her side. 

_I’m going back home._

_Do you want company?_ She tried to meet his gaze, but he stared pointedly behind him. 

_No, I just want to be alone right now._ He was already walking away, back towards the car. 

 

* * *

“Mari.” Adrien glances towards the door, but Nino’s hand is still clasped firmly against his shoulder. 

“I didn’t know you were in town,” Marinette says. The words fall from her mouth without her knowledge. It’s as if she’s moving on autopilot. _How are you_ is ready to follow next, but the unwashed hair and bags under his eyes make her quickly swallow the question. 

“I’m…hungry,” he declares and ducks under Nino’s arm towards the counter. 

Nino sighs before collapsing into chair beside Alya. “I ran into him on my way over. Took a lot of convincing on my part.” 

“Where exactly did you find him? A dumpster?” Alya frowns at Adrien over her shoulder. His clothes are wrinkled, his hair uncombed; there are whiskers across his chin. 

“So, this is a recent thing?” Marinette’s gaze follows Alya’s. 

“Uh.” Nino scratches the back of his neck and winces. “Define recent. He’s kind of been on a downward spiral since he went exploring for his ‘project.’” He grabs a slice of fruit from Alya’s plate, only for her to snatch it back and pop it into her mouth. “You know that place above the old art studio? He still owns it, I guess.” 

“God, that place is a hellhole,” Alya says. “It should be condemned and cleaned out.” 

Nino shrugs. “It didn’t used to be.” 

“Well, that was before…” Alya gestures towards Adrien who’s carrying coffee and a bagel towards their table. 

“Downward spiral,” Nino mouths from beneath another stolen strawberry. 

Adrien grimaces as he sets down his half-eaten bagel. “This is horrible,” he informs them. 

“That could be because you’re used to Marinette’s bakery,” Alya says with a smile. 

“It’s not my bakery,” Marinette argues but Alya waves her aside. 

“Same thing,” she states.

“Haven’t been there in years.” Adrien pulls another chunk of the bagel free and stuffs it into his mouth. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Nino reminds him. He eyes Adrien as he practically inhales his coffee. “You okay there, bud?” 

“Fine. Just hungry. Didn’t eat last night.” Adrien stares out the window between them. 

“How’s your…project going?” Alya tries. Her eyes are wide beneath her glasses, her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. 

Adrien’s gaze immediately swivels to her and he smiles. “Good. It’s good.” There’s a bit more life inside his eyes now. “I was in Egypt last month and I found this archaeologist who’s got an extensive research collection of…” He trails off, eyes clouding over again as he glances down to his empty coffee. “Anyway, it’s good.” 

“Time for a break, then?” Nino asks. “Before you go gallivanting across the world again?” His phone lets out a short beep and he glances down towards it. “Shit. I’ve got to head to work. Babe, you need a ride?” 

“Sure.” Alya leans across the table and grabs Marinette into another hug. “Text me about the club, okay?” 

“It’s not that great,” Nino adds. “Mostly just a bunch of college students raving. But the music will be good.” He winks. 

“I’ll think about it,” Marinette says, rising to her feet as well. 

Adrien stays seated, however, staring down at the napkin he’s crumpling before him. 

Nino slaps a hand on his shoulder. “You gonna make it back okay?” 

“I’m not a child,” Adrien grumbles. 

“Maybe Mari can walk you back. Her parents are in that direction anyway.” 

Marinette’s eyes grow wide and she shakes her head slightly. “Oh, that’s really not necessary—” 

“That’s a great idea,” Alya adds, squeezing her shoulders as she leans down. “Just make sure he gets to the door okay,” she whispers. “Last time, he dropped his keys somewhere and sat outside his place for half the night.” 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Adrien argues. “This is ridiculous.” 

“Text me,” Alya says as she follows Nino out the door. 

Marinette shoots a panicked look in Adrien’s direction. “Okay, well, this is…ready?” 

“I’m fine,” Adrien insists. He pushes his chair back quickly, sending it skittering across the floor. “This is why I don’t like coming home. Everyone acts like I’m completely incapable of taking care of myself.” 

“Well, when you…” She trails off, smiling slightly as she tries not to stare at his disarray. “You know, they just worry about you. Especially when you don’t keep in touch for months.” It’s not as if she’s much better, but her circumstances are entirely different. At least, that’s what she’d been telling herself for years. 

“You’re not worried,” he says, eyes firmly fixed on the ground as he heads for the exit.

_You didn’t keep in touch_ is what she’s sure he means, but she doesn’t answer. He’d made it obvious then that he didn’t want to stay in touch, with any of them. The difference was that Nino kept trying while she hadn’t. The difference was that Nino hadn’t let Adrien’s indifference dig into him like it did her. The difference was that Adrien let him.

“I wouldn’t say that,” she says. 

He hums noncommittedly, pausing to glance at her as they reach a crosswalk. “You look good.” 

“I…keep busy,” she says, which isn’t a reply at all. She feels like she did at eighteen, struggling to find something to say while he stood silent beside her, something to pull him free from the stoic grief he’d encased himself in. 

“I’m sure you do. You’re in, where, California now?” 

“New York,” she corrects. 

He hums another incoherent reply. 

“In a little boutique downtown,” she adds, for the sake of the noise. “Crazy busy, keeps me on my toes. Or my fingers.” She lets out a weak laugh and, for a second, sees his lips twitch into a smile. 

“So, what brings you home?” 

“Just visiting my family,” she says. “How about you?” 

He pauses as they reach the abandoned art studio. It looks more worn down than she remembers, though it’s been years since she’d walked this path home. The windows are tinted, some of them sprayed over in gray paint. The brick is faded and chipped in several places. The front doors are boarded shut, but there’s a line of stairs still open towards the side. 

“This is me,” he says, ignoring her question. 

“Okay.” She takes a step backwards. “Well, it was good seeing you. Take care.” 

He doesn’t move, his eyes guarded as he seems to contemplate something. “Wait.” He holds his hands out, palms open as if he’s offering something. “I’m sorry.”

Marinette’s eyes widen as she takes another step backwards. In all the years they’ve been apart, it was always her that wanted to give the apology, for not being the right thing he needed, for not knowing the right thing, for giving up when he’d told her to.

_You can’t blame yourself,_ Alya had warned her. _You’ll only hurt yourself more._

And she’d come to terms with that, eventually. Maybe teenaged Marinette hadn’t seen it then, but now, in her late twenties, she’d long accepted that she couldn’t fix anyone. That this was his battle and she had to respect his request for space. 

He runs a hand through his hair, an action so strikingly familiar that it pains her to not pinpoint why. “I, um, got your cookies. That you sent me last Christmas. Nino passed them along. Thanks…for thinking of me. They were just as delicious as I remembered them.” 

There’s a quirk of a smile on his face now, one she’s not entirely sure he’s aware of. 

 

* * *

 

_You’ve got dough on your…oh,_ Marinette had said, her finger poised above his nose as her eyes took him in. He was covered in flour and chocolate; a streak of egg ran down the side of his apron. 

_Hmm?_ Adrien had lifted an eyebrow as he looked over at her, following the line of her finger. Flour had dotted both cheeks and a glob of chocolate rested at the corner of his mouth. 

_Your…_ Marinette trailed off again, fixated on the chocolate. Her cheeks flushed warmly and she gestured upwards. _Your nose. I was going to say you’ve got dough on your nose, but it’s pretty hopeless at this point, isn’t it?_

She let out a giggle as he swiped at his face, smearing flour onto the dough now. _It would probably help if your hands were cleaner,_ she added. She grabbed the wet washcloth between them and reached for his face.

_Maybe I want to be covered in dough,_ he’d protested as he dodged her attempts. 

_How much did you eat?_ She eyed the pan of cookies spread out between them. It looked remarkably sparse. 

_None?_ he’d tried. He quickly swallowed what she suspected was another bite of dough.

_You’re living dangerously, Agreste,_ she’d warned, pointing the spatula towards him. 

_I’m not going to get salmonella poisoning,_ he protested. He grabbed the spatula and tugged it gently from her fingers. _I’d have died years ago, otherwise._

_That’s not why,_ she replied. _You’re eating the ingredients. That’s wasted product, right there. I promised Maman and Papa at least two dozen cookies, and we’ll be lucky if we make it to one._

_My deepest apologies,_ he said, wearing a smirk that looked otherwise. _Maybe you can salvage some._

She yanked the spatula from his hand and smacked him on the arm. _More baking, less flirting,_ she instructed, but she couldn’t hide her smile.

She watched from the corner of her eye as he set back to work, more dough sticking to his arm as he tried to wrangle it into something resembling cookies. His tongue poked from the side of his mouth as he worked, just under where the blob of chocolate still rested.

She leaned into him, her lips brushing against the corner of his and sweeping the chocolate into her mouth.

He startled before turning towards her and capturing her kiss. _Salvage anything?_ he asked when they paused for a breath. 

_I’m not sure yet,_ she said and leaned back towards him to claim his lips again.

 

* * *

 

Her knuckles are burning and she glances down to realize she’s clenched her fists underneath folded arms. “Thank you,” she says, willing the words not to sound as formal as they did in her head.

“Would you like to come in?” he adds. His smile looks guilty as he gestures towards the stairs leading to his apartment. “I mean, since you went through the trouble of walking me home, the least I could do is offer you a coffee or something.” His smile drops at her hesitation. “You don’t have to. Sorry for mentioning it.” 

“No,” she says, her mouth finally catching up to her brain. “Coffee would be nice.” 

He looks caught off guard, as if he hadn’t expected her to agree. “Okay, well, then. Mind your step.” He gestures towards the railing, which is loose at the bottom of the staircase. 

It takes all her willpower not to gasp when she sees his apartment. She isn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t the walls covered with tacked-up papers and stacks of books on almost every surface and corner. 

“Oh,” he says, as if just noticing the mess. “Sorry. This…this is just research.” He gathers a pile of papers from the sofa and carries them towards what she assumes is his bedroom. One of the papers flutters free. She bends down to retrieve it. It’s from an article detailing hieroglyphics found in a recently discovered cave. She catches the word _ladybug_ before it’s tugged from her hand. 

“This is your project?” she asks as he sets the paper aside. 

“Yes. Well, no,” he rambles. “It’s a different project. Maybe. Could be related. Could be…a drink?” 

“Hmm?” She feels lost as he looks up at her, gesturing vaguely around him. 

“Could I get you a drink? You wanted coffee, right? I have…” He glances towards his kitchen and cringes. “I don’t have coffee, actually. I think there’s bottled water in the fridge, though.” He disappears again, another pile of papers beneath his arm. 

She frowns, realizing only a moment later that he’d just invited her to help herself. There are papers and books in the kitchen as well, which is mostly bare. Not even trash to suggest he’s been eating. She glances at the paper on the pile beside the fridge, catching a familiar name. She doesn’t want to invade his privacy, but her eyes feel drawn to it nonetheless. 

_Agreste…missing since…investigations discontinued._

It appears to be a copy of a police report, most of it scribbled over in Adrien’s hand and littered with post-it notes. She looks away quickly, focusing her attention on the fridge instead, which is mostly empty, save for a loaf of bread and bottled water lining the fridge door. She grabs one and heads back into the living room, where Adrien’s cleared away most of the papers and books. 

“You’re still looking for her?” she asks softly.

He pauses, still hunched over one of the last remaining stacks. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’m close, I think. There’s someone in Egypt who’d matched her description. Amnesia victim. She’s not in Egypt anymore.” 

She opens the water but doesn’t take a drink, toying with the label instead. “Did you find all this yourself?” 

“I hired an investigator. Most of this is my own, though.” He gestures towards the papers in his hand. 

“For ten years?” she asks, mostly to herself, but he nods slowly. 

“I don’t want to end up like him,” he says, just as quietly.

 

* * *

 

_The press is all over his house,_ Alya had noted with disgust. _Renowned fashion designer commits suicide and they’re on it like piranhas._

Adrien hadn’t been home in days, staying at Nino’s, holed up in his room. When he did venture out, he kept a hoodie pulled tight over his head and thick sunglasses pressed close to his face. 

_Especially Adrien,_ Marinette had replied. 

_Of course,_ Alya said. _I mean, he was the one who found him. So, why wouldn’t they want the details?_ She scoffed. _Never let me get that way, okay? If I ever lose my last ounce of humanity, just take away my credentials. Never let me write again._

_Noted,_ Marinette said absently. _I just…he hasn’t talked about it, you know? I mean, he won’t even mention it. He just acts like it never happened. I keep waiting for it to hit him. Yesterday, he insisted we still go out to the cinema and he just stared at the screen like a zombie. Even after the credits rolled. I had to practically help him from his seat because he wasn’t moving and the usher was starting to complain._ She hugged her legs into her chest. _I gave him a piece of my mind though. The usher. He was a jackass anyway._

_Mari,_ Alya admonished, but it was half-hearted. She hugged her friend close to her. _It’s hard,_ she agreed. _I wish we could do more._

_So do I,_ Marinette said. _So do I._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to 2ndgengeek and granian on tumblr for their help beta reading again. <3

Marinette rips the label from the water bottle, crinkling it between her fingers. “You’re nothing like him. You know that.” 

Adrien casts a sidelong glance in her direction. “Do I?” he says absently. 

Her eyes dart towards the papers still tacked to the walls, then to his fingers at his temples, where he seems oblivious to the tangles of hair wrapped around them. 

“Do you think he would have done any of this?” she asks. “For as long as you have?” 

“Well,” he shrugs, “you didn’t seen the state of his office.” 

She can’t imagine the late Gabriel Agreste’s office looking anything like this. She’d glimpsed it many times—books shelved, papers filed. Everything properly in place as if it had never been touched to begin with. 

She shakes her head, pushing the thought away. “The Adrien I remember was much more selfless and caring than you give yourself credit for. And also,” she continues, glancing away, “you’re still fighting.”

Adrien collapses onto the sofa across from her, heavily enough to send air hissing from the cushion. “How do you know he wasn’t fighting? How do you know he wasn’t trying?” He drops his hands into his lap. His fingers twitch as if they’re still trying to reach for something. “Sorry.” He clears his throat again. “I shouldn’t be dragging you into this. I’m not trying to start an argument.” 

The wrapper stills in her in hands, completely forgotten. “Hey, I’m not attacking him.” There’d been enough slander through the years, enough of Adrien’s own resentment. “I’m sorry if I made it seem that way.” 

“No,” he says with a shake of his head, “I know that.” His eyes are looking past her, focused on the article pinned above her head. She fights the urge to tilt her head and read it herself. 

“He was looking for her, too,” he adds. 

It explained the state of his office, she reasoned. But still, she couldn’t see it. She imagined all of Gabriel’s findings tucked away in some folder or saved on his tablet. “Did he find anything?” 

Adrien lets out a short laugh. “Where do I start? There’s just…” He hesitates, the hair falling from his hands as lowers them. “Are you sure? I have a lot of theories.” 

“Theories?” she repeats. Her eyebrow twitches with how much she’s restraining from raising it. 

“Not like that,” he adds with another laugh. He disappears back into his bedroom and returns with a leather-bound book stuffed thickly with papers. “There’s a lot,” he confesses. “A lot of it is based on speculation—people who’ve said they’ve seen her around, things she could have left behind in favorite places. But then, he noticed a pattern to it. How the times she’d been spotted were at night, all in places she’d been before.” 

He opens the book to a page and taps it with one finger. “I used to think he didn’t do it. That he was framed somehow. Pushed to do it. My father was not an emotional man, by any means. Nothing _fit._ ” 

“Everyone handles grief differently,” Marinette says. “You’d both had a tough year.” 

He hums as if that’s the reply he expected. 

She glances down at the page before her. It’s a brief description of how Adrien had found his father, the handwriting messy and the wording disjointed. She’d read the newspaper reports enough times to know what had happened. Seeing it in Adrien’s words made it a thousand times worse, though— Gabriel slumped beside his office window, his face blueish and still, blood stained darkly across the front of his jacket.

She quickly looks away. “I don’t know, Adrien.” 

He catches onto her discomfort and winces. “It’s too much, sorry.” He tries to yank the book away but she grips it tightly. “The point,” he adds, “is that I think he had another motive.”

“By being framed?” She glances down at the book again and turns the page. There’s a diagram of names breaking down into what she suspects is motives. Everyone from other fashion icons, to his old bodyguard, to the mayor is listed. The handwriting grows frantic as she scales down the list, as if he’d begun listing whichever name he could grasp, no matter how desperate. 

Adrien quickly grabs the book and snaps it closed. “No. That he had another motive for his suicide.” 

Marinette stares up at him, unblinkingly, waiting for the punchline, the smile to break free as he shrugs that he’s just joking. That he’ll at least admit how obsessive this all seems, how much of a stretch it all is, ten years of building this delusion. 

His expression doesn’t waver. He sighs instead. “This is why I didn’t tell anyone.” 

She knows what Nino would say if he saw the state of his room, how quickly Alya would yank him from this nest he’s made and out of solitude. 

“Then tell me,” she says. “Show me. What do you think happened?” 

And the book falls open again between his hands as he flips through his notes. She notices that another journal is tied into the middle of the first, the handwriting less slanting, more careful. Not Adrien’s. 

Adrien points to a passage he’d highlighted and shows her. “At some point, the speculation started spiraling into theory. He was researching dream analysis, especially in connection to contacting spirits.” 

“That’s really strange.” She tries to keep her tone light as she skims the passage in front of her. “I can’t imagine your father…” She trails off when she catches sight of the words _graveyard_ and _akumas._ Her heart stutters in her chest. 

“I’ve had this dream, ever since my dad died,” Adrien continues. “That I was walking through a graveyard, looking for something. And there were these…butterflies…or something that were like ghosts that just flew through everything. This fog that covered the ground and seemed to stick to my legs. And these butterflies would draw out ghosts from the surrounding tombstones. And I would sift through them, looking for my mom. I knew she was there, but she was just always out of reach.” 

Her heart is hammering against her ribs now. She nods, the words in front of her practically swimming. She wonders if it’s a coincidence that Chat’s dream is so similar, that it reminds her of her own, if the whole town has been infected by this dream. 

“He had the same dream, didn’t he?” she asks. 

“I didn’t know until I found his journal,” Adrien says, “after he was gone.” 

“But why would he do something so drastic for a dream?” 

But then it clicks, the articles pinned to the wall and stacked around the apartment. The trailing across the globe. The fever that seemed caught in his eyes. It clicks even before he says it. 

“Because she wasn’t just in the dream.” The book falls closed again. “And I think…I think she might still be out there. Here, maybe.” 

“I’ve seen the fog,” Marinette blurts out, “by the abandoned business area near the edge of town. Not like real fog. More like shadows.” Fog that sticks, Adrien had called them. It’s a better description than any. The way the darkness seemed to cling even when there was no light around unsettles her almost as much as the dream. 

Adrien tenses again and tilts his head. “Yeah,” he says softly, “I’ve seen it, too. That’s why I think she’s here. They’re connected, somehow.” 

Marinette’s phone buzzes from her pocket. She winces when she sees Lydia’s name on the screen. “I should head back. I’ve got some work to finish and I’m already past my deadline.” 

“Yeah,” he says again, but he’s not looking at her. His gaze is fixed on the article above her. “Let me know if you see anything. I’ll probably be around for a bit longer. And thanks…you know, for everything.” 

She smiles, but he still won’t meet her eyes. When she heads towards the door, her own gaze catches again on the article. She sees the words _ancient artifact…untold power_ before Adrien stands to see her out. 

“We’re more alike than you think,” he adds before the door closes behind her, “my father and I. Everything is better at a distance.” 

“Is it, though?” she counters. “Do you really think this is better?” 

Adrien regards her silently before nodding. 

The door closes quietly behind her.  

 

* * *

 

 _Are you okay?_ It was only when Marinette had turned towards him that she realized he was several meters behind. They had been walking through the little shopping district surrounding the bakery. Now, he stood beside an advertisement at the corner of the sidewalk. Gabriel Agreste’s face stared down at them, one corner of his mouth forever upturned. A crack in the glass ran through the other side. 

 _Adrien._ Marinette had placed a hand against his shoulder. She tried to keep her touch light, even as he tensed beneath her. _We can go home if you want, do this another time._

He’d turned to look at her, but his thoughts seemed a million kilometers away. _I think,_ he’d said, _you should go on without me._

Marinette let her hand drop from his shoulder and took a step backwards. _Do you want me to walk with you back to Nino’s?_

He closed his eyes. _No. I mean, I don’t think I can do this._ He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. _I think it’d be better if I didn’t._

 _You mean…_ She felt as if she were falling even as she felt her feet firmly on the ground. _Us?_

He nodded, his eyes still closed. 

Part of her had seen it coming, creeping up in the back of her mind. There was already too much space between them now. 

 _I’m sorry._ He was already walking away from her, hands still tucked into his pockets, head downcast as if he couldn’t look at her.

And she stared after him. Her jaw worked as if trying to find the right thing to say, but her mind was blank. There were many things she could call after him; she didn’t think he wanted to hear any of them.

 

* * *

 

As Marinette heads down the rickety stairs, she sees the shadow before she’s even made it the bottom. It’s spread around the art studio, and only the art studio, and is already thick enough to cover the bottom stair. 

Her hand tightens against the railing before she edges back upstairs. She’s nearing the wall behind Adrien’s apartment when a flicker of movement catches her eye. There, not too far from the staircase is a shadowy figure. She recognizes the tall stature and shape of the jacket even before he turns to face her. Gabriel’s eyes hook onto her as if he sees her standing there. He’s transparent, just as the first figure, smoke and shadows curling against each other as the sunlight shines through. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no sound comes out. Then, he turns and walks through the shadows on the ground, disappearing as soon as his foot leaves the darkness. 

Her first thought is _Should I transform for this?_ because she thinks the shadows are already receding. 

But then she hears a scream and a clatter of footsteps, and she presses herself against the wall, letting the words slip free before she’s barely thought of them.


End file.
